Where Eagles Live
by homesickpirate
Summary: America is falling, and the only one who can catch him is England. But at what cost? The cost is freedom, dear. It's America's 500th annaversary as England's colony, and he remembers that fateful day of 1776, when he lost the revolutionary war. Colonial!USUK


**So this is kind of my AU of if America lost the war of independance. I always thought that would be interesting. Yah, also my first time writing smut, so it's a little rushed and not too detailed. And there's a little french, but I didn't bother to translate it because it's pretty simple stuff like "Shit!" and stuff like that. And Im now one day behind on my fanfic a day challenge. Ugh. Obviously, Im writing two fics tomorow...**

**Warning: Yaoi, angst.**

**Disclaimer: Dis Author dont own nutin.**

The sky looked ugly. Purplish blue clouds like angry bruises swirled around the wind that whistled some vague twisted tune from some mysterious place, and played its song that caused the grasses to bow in reverence. The anger in the air was apparent, and though none of the peoples knew its reason, the source of the storm was right there, living amongst them, breathing the same air, but feeling more sorrow than any could have known.

America. Such a beautiful name. Such a beautiful place, his lands adorned with high golden grasses, and the mountains purple in the morning light. Oceans frothy and green, and snowy forests pearly white in the winter's night. Such freedom roamed these hills, he believed. Some magic that owned the cure to his sadness, if only he could find it. But freedom costs a hefty sum, and only the rich can afford it. For who can lift off the chains of slavery, when they are no longer around his ankles, but have become part of his very existence. Because even he himself couldn't scrub off the stain on his proud striped flag, the British blemish in the top left hand corner.

But it was such a beautiful blemish, was it not? A beautiful terrible blemish that blotted out his freedom, that covered him like the gentle protection that he needed, but that he did not want. It symbolized everything that was wrong with America, and yet, everything that was right. Because Britain owned the world and therefore Britain owned him.

It wasn't so bad, he reasoned to himself as he stripped down to take a shower. Britain was still the world superpower, eight hundred years after it rose to power, and seemed to be standing strong. Its only opposition was the ever weakening German Empire, for Russia and China had both fallen, and were now only ghosts of what they had once been; like everyone else, they were also colonies of the British Empire.

But America didn't know how he felt about the world. He tried to convince himself that his wasn't such an awful life, that he didn't mind being a colony, but at the end of each day he had no idea where he stood. Britain was good to him, even still, as he was, and always had been the favorite. He was allowed the most luxuries, given the smallest taxes, and had a high place in Britain's parliamentary government. Why wouldn't he be happy?

When he found out that the German Empire now held only Italy, Spain, France, and a few other German nations, he didn't know how to feel. He knew that this empire would soon fall, most likely, but was he happy, or sad? He knew that he would be expected to wish for their demise, because they were enemies of Great Britain, but he had always felt that they were his last hope, his only chance of escape. And now even that was taken away from him.

America let the hot water pour down his back, remembering a day when the rain fell as hard as this, but it had not been warm, and the world had felt cold, when it turned his back on him as he fell slowly, in the mud.

_America stared down the muzzle of his gun at his foe. England. That one country that stood in the way of everything he wanted, everything he believed in. He felt a sudden burst of anger and courage flow through him, as the prospect of battle became near, and he shouted across the distance "From this day, consider me, independent!"_

_He saw England's face from the other side of the field change, as if he had been right next to him. Although he tried to figure out just what emotions played across his face, his concentration was broken, as he was interrupted._

_"I won't allow it" He heard a shrill yell from the other side of the field, and before he knew it, the bloodied and battered Brit had knocked away his gun as if he were an amateur. Truly, he could not survive as a nation. He stared down this new gun, the one that belonged to his opponent, England, as time seemed to stop. He felt oddly calm. He barely tensed as he waited for the shot that would end his life that bubbled so helplessly close to the surface. Vaguely, he heard his troops call out a desperate "Fire" in hopes of creating a stalemate. He almost laughed. What good would it do anyone if they were both dead? HE felt the bayonet push him, slowly, as his body began to bend back, one second at a time, until he softly landed on the ground behind him, with a wet sploosh. The bayonet still rested gently against his chest. He dared himself to look up. At least, though he may have lost this war, his freedom, he would still never have lost the ability to look up._

_England's face stared at him gently through the rain. From this angle, from the ground, it almost looked as if England was an angel come down to deal divine justice. And then America realized that the expression he couldn't see earlier was still written all over his face. And it was disgusting. It was the worst thing that he could have imagined. It was pity. So America looked down._

_HE felt another sploosh as England got down on his knees and whispered to him, "You're such an idiot sometimes" He felt England hook his arms around his knees and behind his back, and drop the gun and pick him up. England, smaller than him, carried him, staggering back to his lines, ignoring America's ragtag army that was standing, shocked and immobile behind them._

_England looked at him with so much love that it made him sick. He wished that England hated him, so that he could justify his own feelings. "Why?" England asked sadly, looking at the dead bodies littering the field as he carried him. America just lolled his head and closed his eyes. He didn't want to see what he'd done. He'd killed thousands, sure, but he had good reasons, and he didn't want to lose his faith in his beliefs too this night._

_And then England passed into the infirmary, the sounds of moaning redcoats the only thing that filled his ears. America kept his eyes closed; he did not want to see the men that he had doomed. England laid him down on a bed, treating him as one of his own. That thought alone almost brought tears to America's eyes. "Damnit, why?!" England repeated as he stared at a gash on the side of America's face, his words mimicking America's unspoken thoughts exactly._

_Because I want to be free, he wanted to explain, but he didn't know how. He had had this conversation many a time with England, but this was not the place nor the time. Besides, it seemed such a silly, ignorant goal when he saw all the men that were dead or lay dying around him, because of his whims. Yes, this was much too complicated for England to understand. "You know why" he muttered thickly, lolling his head back and forth, before drifting into the sweet darkness that comes upon those who have seen too much, and heard enough._

_America woke covered in sweat, and barely breathing. He opened his eyes, ignoring the shooting pains in his head, and saw that it was night. He tried to figure out where he was, but his memory was vaguely fuzzy. All hr remembered were flashes of red and blue, and shouts and blood._

"_You alright, love?" A concerned voice entered his tent. And it was that voice- suddenly America remembered everything. The fight, his loss, England carrying him, it all came back to him in a rush. He scooted across the bed, trying to get away from his enemy. Suddenly England was right next to him, touching him, holding him down, and trying to calm him. Why would he do that? Didn't England know how much he hated him? How he wanted him dead? And the worst part was that England was supposed to hate him too. It was what his entire enterprise of war rested on, it was the pinnacle of his revolution. Because the reason that they had to be free from England was because England was oppressive, England was evil. But now England was bathing his head with a washcloth, whispering sweet nothings into his ear, ignoring his own wounded to care for an enemy. THE enemy. America felt his walls crumbling, his ideas shaken to the core. What was there left to fight for? Especially because he had so obviously, so painfully lost. Could there be anything that would rally his worn out troops, his 'rabble' against this terrible, ever present enemy? All he wanted was to throw himself out of bed, grab England's fragile white throat, and strangle him till his eyes rolled in his head and he stopped moving. But he had lost, and he had nothing left to win. So he just turned his head so England could reach the other side of his forehead._

"_I hate you" he murmured quietly. England's hand never stopped caressing him. He just hummed at America and brought up a bowl of hot soup that America hadn't seen before to his lips. America took a tentative sip. It was meat! The taste was so good that he could have wept, could have almost enjoyed the meal, were it not for the person who gave it to him._

_Suddenly it occurred to him, that even though he had lost the war- and he had- he was still a rebel. England shouldn't be washing him, caring for his wounds, feeding him an officer's portions. Newfound fear clenched in his heart as he realized that unknown horrors perhaps lay in front of him and his peoples. Would he be executed? Tortured? It occurred to him that England might know, and he resolved himself to get the answer, even though it was probably an unhappy one, if only to get it over with and to become acquainted and resigned to his fate. And anyway, any punishment could only serve to help him feed the hungry and passionate hatred that festered in his soul for England._

"_What're you gonna do with me?" He asked quietly. This time England's hand did move from his face, and he took the bowl of soup away. He blurrily saw England sit down on the bed next to him and felt England's hand resting on his knee._

"_George Washington is dead" England declared gravely, bluntly. "As well as most of the other instigators. At least, those who haven't escaped."_

_America paused and studied England. He looked pained for some reason. He couldn't for the life of him figure out why, England supposedly hated all of these men who had fought so bitterly against him. But somehow, England looked sad. _

"_You didn't answer my question" he said doggedly, looking down at the floor._

"_We gave them a solder's death, you know." England continued gently. "They were valiant men, and they deserve honor and respect."_

"_But what are you going to do with ME."America requested flatly, almost panicking. If England couldn't even tell him, it had to be something horrible, some terrible torture that would make him an example among all the British colonies. His eyes flicked up to England's, and their gazes met, and locked. On the outside, he tried desperately not to show any fear, but on the inside he pleaded, mentally begged him to spare some mercy for his wayward colony. Because if anything, America wanted to live. And at that moment he almost didn't care about freedom anymore._

_England just sighed quietly. "I don't know what you mean. I'm not doing anything with you. The war's over, love"_

"_You don't mean that" he burst out, angrily._

_England looked taken aback. "Mean what?" He asked, puzzled._

"_Love. You don't mean that."_

_England smiled. A sad, old, smile. "Oh if only you knew, America. How my love burns for thee"_

_No. America thought. This was all wrong. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. He was supposed to be free; England was supposed to hate him. He didn't want this love, well, maybe he did. But not like this. He wanted mutual love, between countries, between equals. But this is all that he got. It was all he had left to hold on to._

America snapped out of his daydream with the ringing of his doorbell.

"Coming!" He yelled, jumping out of the shower, and pulling on a pair of jeans, not bothering with a shirt, knowing exactly who the visitor was.

He opened the door to find a very smiling England waiting for him, holding a very large, brightly wrapped present.

"Happy Birthday, m'boy!" He announced heartily, as he stepped into the foyer. He didn't even ask to be let in. But then again, he shouldn't have to. This house belonged to England after all.

America just watched him, almost in a daze, still caught in his memories of red and blue, stars adorning his stripes and dreams of eagles wheeling high above the battle fields, flying away, away, somewhere where they could build their nest and be free.

"Something wrong, love?" England asked, a slight frown gracing his oversized eyebrows.

America smiled back at him blankly. "Nope! Just thinkin, ya know."

It took England a moment to realize what he was talking about. "Oh, America," his words dripped like sickly sweet syrup as he reached out to hug him. "Don't think about such unpleasant things. The past is behind us darling"

England looked up at America, trying to smother with reassurance and his unhealthy happiness. This wouldn't work. Not on him, and not today, of all days.

America pulled away from England's embrace. "It's you who decided that my birthday should be today, I can't help but remember it" He walked over to his couch and flopped down, pouting.

England rolled his eyes. "Well, you know. That was a turning point in your, ah, existence."

"Yes, yes" America sighed. "I exist. I don't live. Don't you understand? I fought that war so that you could see that I wasn't some little kid anymore. Not just your brother."

England ignored his bristling anger and sat down next to him on the couch. "You always get like this on your birthday. You should try to be happy sometimes. You live a good life here." He pursed his lips and adjusted himself so that he had about three-quarters of the couch, and then continued. "Besides, I do know that you're not just my little brother. At least that part you got through to me"

He looked at America, and then wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. He giggled. America didn't.

America looked down at the ground. He was frustrated. Talks of freedom would get him nowhere with the stupid, controlling Brit.

"Wanna go to the bedroom?" he asked, already standing up. England didn't answer, of course. Just smiled knowingly and followed him up the stairs. As soon as they got to the room, America began taking off his shirt, in silence, and got on the bed, waiting for England.

"Hey," England grabbed his arm, and pulled him off, "It's your birthday today. Would you like to top?"

"America just stared at him. He had never been allowed to top England before. He looked uncertainly at England, then back to the bed. To be honest, he didn't even know how he should feel.

"Aw come on" England murmured suggestively, throwing himself on the bed. "It is your five hundredth anniversary, you know."

America decided that he would just go for it. He had nothing to lose, anyway, and he was tired of all of this awkwardness. Things were usually better between them after they had sex. He began by instinct, running his hands up and down England, as he climbed on top of him, pinning the ruler of the world under his body. He ripped off England's shirt, not even bothering with buttons, before moving on to his pants. He stared down at England's member. The nation under him was already hot and hard. Obviously there wouldn't be a lot of foreplay tonight.

America began unzipping his pants, when his eyes flickered across England's face, so trusting and loving. It made him sick. He stopped.

"Turn around" he muttered hoarsely, barely able to speak, as he was beginning to be aroused also. England just looked at him with surprise.

"Whatever you wish" he murmured graciously. After he settled himself on the bed, on knees and elbows, he flashed a smile back at America. "It is your birthday after all"

America ignored it and grabbed the lube. As he began preparing England, he couldn't deny that England's body made him respond. Just seeing England, exposed with his arse in the air, thrusting himself towards America- he couldn't deny that it made him aroused. But another part of him was disgusted. He hated this man, didn't he? Ah- he couldn't think, not as he thrust himself into England for the first time. England gasped and wriggled around.

He began thrusting in and out, enjoying the wet tight heat surrounding him, and yet hating this so much more than he knew he could. Look, there was the superpower, and world tyrant under him, writhing and trusting. He put his anger into his thrusts, as he began moving harder, faster, fingernails scraping bleeding marks into England's skin. Oh how he hated this man. How tempting it was to just reach out and grab his neck, a single movement would crack his spine in half, and his oppression would be over. But he couldn't, somehow. He had been conditioned for this, programmed to hold allegiance to England.

"Oh, America" England moaned under him as he began to climax. Suddenly, America felt himself release, and his eyes rolled back into his head. Somehow he managed to not call out a single world, but the only thing that he thought in his head was, _hate, hate, hate_.

They lay in each other's arms, not bothering to clean up the mess that they had made. England was smiling, and falling asleep. "I love you," he murmured sleepily. America didn't respond. He just looked at the beautiful terrible man before him. And he knew that half of him wanted to love him, but the other half knew that this was wrong, so wrong. He wanted nothing more than to go shower again, to clean his bed, to burn it, and this whole house, with England in the center of the fire. He wanted to leave and never come back. But he also knew that he never would. He couldn't. He was a colony. His only job was to please his master, to please England. And even though he knew that he was England's favorite, he also knew that a useless colony was nothing but a burden. And if he was a burden, he would cease to exist. Besides, it wasn't that bad. All he had to do was keep pleasing England, every night he was there. To give him his money, his land, his body, and his mind. He would never be free. But the least he could do was repeat his silent prayer for as long as he lived; _hate, love, and hate_.


End file.
